Their second guest arrived shortly after Sherlock received a text. John had just pulled the baked french toast out of the oven, and went into the living room when he heard the door open. Mrs. Hudson just looked at him with confusion that seemed just a bit too thorough to be real. He narrowed his eyes at her, but she just shook her head and shrugged. "You know more about that boy than I do," she said rather too convincingly.

Sherlock soon sauntered back through the door with Molly at his heels. She was rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, as though she had been exerting herself, but all she offered John was a large warm box. "Tyler sends his love," she said with a smile. "He and I baked these last night, but he wanted to go see his mum this morning." Tyler was the boy she was dating now, the one from the vet's office who had owed her some favor or another. John was still happy for her, and Sherlock offered his blessings as well—sort of. "This one's not gay," he'd pronounced to the three of them after a lengthy research session. "Or a consulting criminal." Tyler had shifted uncomfortably, and Molly patted his hand.

John placed the box on the table next to Mrs. Hudson's cookies and embraced Molly warmly. He'd shouted at her for roughly an hour a few days after Sherlock-the-cat's funeral, but she'd sat there quietly, waiting for him to calm down so that she could defend herself and explain her part in the whole fiasco. Sherlock stood by as well, nodding with clouded eyes as she told their story. Finally, John had sat down very hard on the couch and apologized for his outburst. They'd been even closer, if possible, after that. It didn't hurt that her doe-eyed crush on Sherlock had faded quite a bit and that she was beginning to come into her own, confidence-wise.

She took a seat on the couch next to Mrs. Hudson, who immediately began plying her with knowing questions about "this Tyler fellow", and Sherlock followed John back into the kitchen.

"Lemon blueberry muffins, if I'm not mistaken," Sherlock pronounced before pulling the cover off of the box. The sound he made suggested that he was, in fact, not mistaken. "Brilliant."

"Where did you go just then?" John asked. Nearly everyone was present, which mean that it would be okay to start cooking the sausages and eggs.

"Oh, Molly was having trouble opening the door downstairs," Sherlock answered with a distracted wave. His other hand was hovering over the table, obviously having difficulty deciding between a muffin or a biscuit. John knew that wave, though. It usually meant that Sherlock wasn't being entirely honest with him. He sighed and cracked a few eggs, but didn't press him on it. He had been gone for only a few moments, so it couldn't have been all that bad.

Then Sherlock was at his side, unwrapping a muffin. He picked off a chunk with his elegant fingers and held it in front of John's mouth. "Try this," he commanded lightly. John looked over at him. He was wearing his usual pyjamas—no special flannel holiday outfit for him—but the way his body leaned against the counter, the way he looked down at John, made the cotton look...fantastic. John obeyed, opening his mouth. The muffin was delicious: fresh, and sweet without being cloying, and John allowed his eyes to slip closed as he chewed. When he opened them again, he saw that Sherlock was watching him, incredibly pleased.

"It's just missing one thing, don't you agree?" He asked. John shook his head.

"Are you crazy? It's per—" The taller man cut him off by slanting his mouth against his. Oh, that made sense. John grinned and sank his teeth into Sherlock's lower lip, dragging from him a familiar moan that started a fire roaring low in John's belly. It was over too soon, and neither one completely sure which one pulled away though both of them knew it had been necessary. "I owe you for that," John threatened with a grin, and returned to the food cooking on the stove. Sherlock only chuckled and stuffed the rest of the muffin into his mouth.

Their third guest arrived not long after John had convinced Sherlock to lay the table. They weren't going so fancy as to put out an expensive silk tablecloth or fine china, but their mismatched set of dishes and their chemical-scarred table would do just fine. John had just put the pan of eggs into the oven to keep them warm until everyone had arrived, but just as he was closing it, Greg bustled into the kitchen with several store bags.

"Father Christmas has arrived," he announced, and indeed anyone would be hard-pressed not to call him jolly. Molly and Mrs. Hudson moved to stand in the doorway to the kitchen as he unpacked his bags. "Croissants! And that hazelnut spread you like, Mrs. Hudson! But—" and he grinned even wider as his eyes traveled around the room. "—and I know that this is what you've all been waiting for, booze!" He pulled out a few bottles and set about mixing some kind of cocktail. John wasn't entirely sure about the whole thing—sure, it was Christmas morning, but alcohol had ruined a lot of family gatherings, and he wasn't usually a fan. The other three seemed at least marginally interested. Greg cleared a spot on the counter and procured five wine glasses, then proceeded to mix orange juice, champagne, and some kind of vodka into all of them while John placed the food on the table. They finished at roughly the same time, and Greg distributed the glasses before taking his seat between Molly and Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock took a sip from the glass and looked at Greg with narrowed eyes.

"Pineapple vodka," he stated. Greg just nodded. Realization sparked across Sherlock's face, and then he was smirking. "My brother has a tendency of adding pineapple vodka to his mimosas." Greg's careful smile disappeared, and he sat back for a moment as though considering his options. Finally he nodded again.

"He, ah..." The man was blushing. John found it incredibly difficult not to laugh. "He sends his love, but I'm sure you know he's helping your mother with dinner plans."

Molly and Mrs. Hudson exchanged a look, neither quite understanding what was going on but recognizing the situation for what it was. Sherlock took another sip of the cocktail and looked at John for a moment.

"Well, many congratulations to you," he finally managed. Breakfast continued just a bit awkwardly for a few more minutes, until finally Molly was able to break the mood.

"My mum never let me eat hazelnut spread for breakfast," she told Mrs. Hudson. The older lady beamed and spread a thick layer onto a croissant.

"Well, mine either, dear, but I should think that now there's not much she can do about it, is there?"

After breakfast, the ladies volunteered to wash the dishes since John had cooked, but Greg wouldn't hear of it. Instead, he volunteered Sherlock and himself to do the washing. Sherlock, in true Sherlock form, squirmed out of the task with a glance towards Molly and the excuse that he had to go help her with something. Molly vouched for him, which left John standing at the sink with Greg while Mrs. Hudson stood by and fretted about not being allowed to help. "You're not our housekeeper," John informed her, laughing. It was nice to have someone to help with the dishes, in any case.

They had saved Greg for last, knowing that they wouldn't just be revealing Sherlock to the man himself, but also to the rest of the station. They'd talked about it, and Sherlock wanted to go back to his old "job" (such that it was), and that would require, eventually, "outing" himself as alive. Sherlock had put his old hat on and pulled his collar up to cover his face, but it hadn't done any good: Greg had frozen in place as soon as he laid eyes on the two of them. He may have even dribbled some coffee out of his mouth, but the men had been sworn to secrecy on that one. John had been afraid that Lestrade had been in on the deception as well, but his reaction, thankfully, had been real.

There had only been a moment's hesitation, and then Sherlock has wordlessly reached over to take John's hand, looking at Greg all the while. He had then asked somewhat pointedly about any further cases, and it was clear that he was not simply inquiring as to the murders in London, but testing the waters for something deeper. Greg had nodded and segued gracefully into telling the man about some difficult case the team had solved only days before.

Then Donovan had entered the room, carrying a box full of files, and had stopped dead in her tracks. John watched Sherlock's grin spread across his mouth: he knew without turning around who had entered the room. It was as though the woman couldn't figure out which strange thing to marvel at first—Sherlock's return from the dead or the fact that his fingers were laced perfectly with John's. They hadn't given her time to say a word: Sherlock rose and breezed past her. "Do close your mouth, Donovan. I'm not Anderson."

There were several loud crashes and knocks coming from outside the door, and after one spectacularly loud one, John could just hear Molly squeak out a painful curse. By the time they'd finished with the washing up, however, and made their way to the sofa and chairs in the sitting room, it had mostly quieted down. Sherlock and Molly still had yet to reappear but John considered starting off the gift exchange anyway. Just as his impatience started to overcome his conscience, the door opened partway and Sherlock squeezed through a thin crack. Molly came through soon after, and they both pointedly ignored John's quizzical look.

Well, fine then. He'd give them their gifts last.

The guests spent the next half hour or so tearing through shiny wrapping paper and exclaiming over the gifts. Sherlock only deduced the first two presents (Mrs. Hudson got Molly amethyst earrings, Molly got Lestrade a new wallet, much nicer than the one Sherlock has pickpocketed just weeks before) before he caught John's Sherlock That's Quite Enough stare and, thankfully, fell quiet. In the pleased silence that fell amongst the wrappings and boxes, while everyone examined and appreciated their gifts in front of everyone else, Sherlock jumped to his feet.

"There's one more," he announced, an uncharacteristically shy grin brightening his features. "Molly, if you wouldn't mind."

She grinned, more excited than shy, and flew to throw open the door. John cast a questioning look towards Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, but their faces were carefully blank, eyes fixed on the doorway. With a sigh, John turned his attention to Molly, who was standing with her arms thrust out, as though she were on a game show. Something about the stance seemed...familiar. He narrowed his eyes even as the door opened to reveal a strange structure, multi-leveled, covered in carpet. It took a moment or two for the familiarity to strike him.

Oh.

He rose to his feet, shaking his head without knowing that he was doing it. Molly was supposed to get rid of that. More accurately, Molly and Tyler were supposed to get their own cat and use that for it. It wasn't supposed to turn up back here again. What was he supposed to do with it? He ran a hand over his face.

It had been months since the accident that had taken his cat from his but returned Sherlock to him, and while he was no longer mourning the furry companion, that didn't mean he wanted that...carpet-thing back here again. He looked to Molly for an explanation, but she just beamed at him.

"Sherlock, what exactly—?"

Sherlock merely inclined his head toward the carpet-structure-thing, so John took a closer look. As he looked, a fuzzy black head peeked out from one of the holes. Clear green eyes blinked at him, and then a tiny meow sounded from the darkness. It wore a tiny blue collar, bright and sunny against its charcoal-colored fur. Despite himself, John grinned, and when he reached to retrieve the kitten from its perch, it climbed happily up his chest to nuzzle against his neck, sharp little claws poking through his jumper.

"This one's a boy," Molly informed him once again. "Only he's been...you know, fixed. He's got all his shots, too! And I brought all your old cat stuff back again: the dish, the box..." She was running straight down the list, but her voice faded into the background as the kitten began purring, warm and rumbly, against his ear and he looked up at Sherlock. The taller man was trying not to smile, but his eyes were giving him away. John moved to stand closer to him and, mindful of the kitten currently exploring his shoulders, slipped his arms around his partner's waist. Sherlock returned the gesture and folded both John and the cat into his own embrace.

"My one request," Sherlock murmured into the top of John's head. "Is that you do not name this one after me."